The following morning, the innkeeper crossed the bridge alone.
He had left Mara at the house with a promise to return before supper. She had not asked him to stay, and he had not asked her to come with him. There were things, he said, that he needed to attend to.
The White Heron stood as it always had, its grey stone walls cool in the morning shade, ivy reaching towards the upper windows. The sign creaked gently above the door.
He stopped in the square and looked at it.
For years he had crossed that threshold without thinking. He had opened the shutters, lit the fires, checked the rooms, spoken to travellers, and listened to the familiar complaints of the kitchen. He had known which floorboard creaked outside the best room, which window stuck in damp weather, and how much wood the fire would consume on a cold night.
Now he stood outside as though he were a visitor.
The door opened.
The cook was looking out.
“Well,” she said. “You've been a long time.”
“I have.”
“Breakfast is nearly over.”
“I know.”
“And there's a leak in the pantry.”
“I know that too.”
She studied him.
“You look different.”
He smiled. “Do I?”
“Not in the face. Somewhere else.”
She stepped aside to let him in.
Inside, the familiar warmth met him: bread, woodsmoke, coffee, and the faint smell of beeswax. A couple were finishing breakfast near the window. A traveller in a brown coat was reading a newspaper that appeared to be several days old.
Nobody paid him much attention.
He hung his coat on its usual peg.
Then he went behind the counter and polished a glass.
The cook watched him.
“You're not staying?”
“I haven't decided.”
“That's inconvenient.”
“Yes,” he said. “I thought it might be.”
She gave him a look, but there was a smile behind it.
He went upstairs and opened the rooms. The river-view room was empty. The garden room had been left untidy by its last occupants, who had apparently been eating apples in bed. He opened the windows, straightened the blankets, and placed a fresh jug of water on the table.
In the garden room, something had changed.
The little white flower that had once appeared on the windowsill was there again, standing in a narrow glass bottle. He was certain he had not put it there.
He touched one of its petals.
“Ah,” he said.
When he came downstairs, Rowan was waiting at the counter.
“I hear you've come back.”
“I have.”
“To stay?”
“For a while.”
Rowan nodded, as though this were a reasonable but insufficiently detailed answer.
“There's a question about the garden wall.”
“I thought there might be.”
“And the bridge needs looking at.”
“Yes.”
“And the gate at Mara's house opens the wrong way.”
“So I've been told.”
Rowan looked at him closely.
“You seem remarkably cheerful about all this.”
“I am.”
“That's worrying.”
The innkeeper laughed.
Mrs Bell arrived a little later, carrying a basket of pears. She placed it on the counter and looked at him.
“Have you found what you were looking for?”
“I think so.”
“Good.”
She glanced around the room.
“Then I suppose we shall have to find something else to look for.”
“Must we?”
“Of course. Otherwise we'd all become terribly idle.”
She took a pear from the basket and began polishing it with her sleeve.
At lunchtime, the innkeeper sat with the others at the long table. For once, he was not serving anyone. The cook brought him soup, bread, and a small dish of pickled onions.
“You'll have to get used to being on this side of the table,” Rowan said.
“I've been here before.”
“Not often.”
“No.”
“And who is looking after the place while you're eating?”
“The cook.”
Rowan looked towards the kitchen.
“Then we're in safe hands.”
The cook called something from the doorway that made Rowan reconsider the remark.
After lunch, a woman came in carrying a small suitcase. She asked whether there was a room available.
The innkeeper rose.
“Certainly,” he said.
He took her suitcase and led her towards the stairs. At the foot of them, she paused.
“Have you been here long?”
He thought about the question.
“Yes,” he said. “And no.”
The woman seemed satisfied with this. She followed him upstairs.
When he returned, the cook was standing behind the counter.
“You didn't ask where she was going.”
“No.”
“Or how long she intended to stay.”
“No.”
“That's not like you.”
He looked towards the stairs.
“Perhaps it is.”
In the late afternoon, the light came through the windows at an angle that made the room seem larger than it was. The innkeeper stood beside the counter, looking towards the door.
A little while later, Mara appeared.
She carried no luggage, only a small bunch of white flowers.
“Good afternoon,” she said.
“Good afternoon.”
She placed the flowers in the jug on the counter. The cook looked at them, then at Mara.
“Are you staying?”
“For supper, I think.”
“Good. There'll be enough.”
Mara turned to the innkeeper.
“Have you finished?”
“For today.”
“And tomorrow?”
He glanced around the room.
“Tomorrow I'll come back.”
Mara nodded.
“Then I'll see you at home.”
The words seemed to settle quietly into the room.
The innkeeper looked at her for a moment, then smiled.
“Yes,” he said. “You will.”
She left him there, and he watched her cross the square.
Rowan, who had been sitting near the fire, put down his cup.
“Well,” he said. “That's settled, then.”
“What is?”
“You're not leaving.”
The innkeeper looked at him.
“No,” he said. “I don't think I am.”
Outside, the river moved beneath the bridge. The White Heron sign creaked in the breeze.
And upstairs, in the garden room, the little white flower had opened another petal.
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